#and having bones that are less likely to break

[strawberrystepmom]

nsfw. dante x f!reader. established relationship, mentions of jealousy (dante toward reader), prone bone, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, orgasms..multiple. | wc: 1.9k.

“I swear to God you owe me an orgasm for every time you pissed me off tonight, Dante.”

“And just how many times was that, sweet thing?”

Doing what he does best, the man to whom you’ve sworn your heart crowds the little doorway of the bathroom. His shoulders are broader than the door even while he’s leaning against its frame, one arm dangling at his side and the other pressed against the wooden frame to cage you beneath him.

You glare up at him – cold as ice. 

”Do not do that right now,” you begin only to be brought to a stop by the unwavering stance of your beloved.  

Still as a statue, Dante remains in the doorway, blocking your exit with his hand wrapped around the frame. 

“Answer the question.”

Unable to hide your apparent annoyance any longer, a humorless laugh escapes and you look away wide eyed. 

“I stopped counting after six.” 

You turn to face him again, mouth half open and eyes narrowed. There is no possible way he isn’t aware of how poorly he acted. Unfortunately, you also know him well enough to know that’s exactly why he brought it back up. 

He’s working toward an apology and you aren’t quite sure if you even want it yet. 

Grabbing a clip off of the shelf closest to the bathroom sink, you tie your hair away from your face and attempt to push past him.  

“You can have the bed tonight. I'll sleep on the couch.”

Stopping you in your tracks with a gentle grasp on each of your arms, Dante frowns. 

“You can sleep in the bed and I’ll sleep in it next to you, how about that?”

Attempting to shake him off, you point a finger toward his chest.  “You need to learn how to handle your jealousy productively.”

Scoffing, his jaw slackens.

“Have you seriously convinced yourself that I’m jealous of any of those people?”

Shaking your head, you raise your eyebrows defiantly. “If you're going to continue to be an ass Dante, go home.”

“Well here I am,” he snarks back, holding his arms out widely.

“Oh you think you’re so damn cl–” 

Stopped when his lips press against yours, the entirety of your body is wrapped up in his before you can realize what’s happening. Large arms hold you against his chest, big, calloused palms cupping the soft cheeks of one remarkably angry woman – remarkable only because it’s so unlike you to be angry. 

Pausing the kiss, Dante mumbles against your mouth while attempting to nip at your lower lip just how you like. 

“Let me make it up to you.”

Frustration rises in the back of your throat, still itching to argue with him about how he acted earlier in the evening. An argument forms on your tongue, lips parting to let it free. Almost as if he senses it, Dante kisses you again, hands sliding from your face to your sides and settling on your ribs, thumbs dancing just below your covered breasts.

So familiar with the space that is technically yours even if he spends so much time in it, he holds you against him while he guides both of your bodies away from the bathroom and toward the living room. As soon as the backs of his legs hit the couch, he slumps down atop it and pulls you into his lap, never breaking the intense kiss. Your tongue slick against one another, soft moans spilling out and stopping against the other’s lips. 

No words need to be exchanged right now. The two of you are so familiar with the other’s body that he could undress you with his eyes closed and still get it right the first time, fabric sliding over your head and being tossed to the floor behind you. You rock softly in his lap, the muscle of his thigh taut and flexed to give you something to rut against. His greedy lips trail away from yours and down your chin and throat and neck, a trail of fire from your mouth to your core left behind.

“Dante,” you whine, uncertain of what, exactly, you want.

A less aroused part of you wants to remind him that he was a real asshole for no reason tonight but her voice gets quieter and quieter in the back of your head with each drag of your hips and the friction it brings. Wordlessly, he caresses your torso with his fingers, dipping them beneath the waistband of your panties. The grinding motion has dragged your slick from your needy hole to your clit, the essence of you covering his finger when he runs it through your slit. 

Even that pesky aroused part of you won’t give in quite so easily.

Any other time by this point, you’d be nearly coming undone. Sometimes the simple act of being so outspokenly adored and wanted by him is enough to nearly drive you to the edge of euphoria, eyes rolling back in your head so all it takes is a few well placed touches to drench his fingers in your release.

Tonight, though, you aren’t ready to give him that satisfaction. His fingers begin toying with your clit, sliding between your pussy and panties, giving you direct contact to his skin. The grip you have over your mind right now is ironclad, refusing to give into the temptation to let go now that he’s got you. 

You do not stifle your moans, rather tipping your head toward the ceiling and stopping fewer of them as the tip of his finger slides inside of you. He gasps, clearly overcome with his own fight to stay in his right mind.

“Can feel how close you are already,” he marvels quietly, sinking his finger in until his second knuckle is enveloped in your warmth. “Gonna make a mess for me, gorgeous?”

Looking down at him, you shake your head. 

He raises his brows, surprised. “No?” He asks, pulling his finger completely out of you in one fell swoop. 

You gasp, muscles clenching futilely now that you’ve been left empty. This weakens your resolve to make him wait the slightest bit, bottom lip twitching in irritation until you feel your hole stretch again, this time around two of his fingers instead of one.

“There we go, I know that’ll do it.”

Sinking both fingers to the second knuckle, you writhe while his wrist flexes and his fingers move, hips naturally matching his rhythm. The pressure is intense, building behind your stomach and slowly becoming more intense with every thoughtful move he makes. Your body refuses to tense and relax; to drench his fingers and hand in you. 

Dante knows this game well and he ratchets the pressure higher, fingers methodically pressing against the spot he knows gets the reaction he’s craving so badly. He feels you twitch in response, thighs spasming, stopping just short of finishing.

Without warning, he withdraws his fingers completely. You protest, yelping more when he slides out from underneath you and situates you onto your belly beneath him, sliding a pillow beneath your hips to prop them upward. Your ass is fully exposed to him, wet pussy facing the cool, open air. Naturally, you move to arch your back and wag your hips in the air but you’re stopped by a hand keeping you pressed against the couch.

He must really be sorry if he’s going straight to being as close as possible. 

Draping his body over yours, Dante’s chest keeps you pinned on your stomach. Your pussy 

welcomes him with open arms when his tip slides into its eager, waiting warmth. Slowly, he drags his hips in and out of you to set a pace, gradually picking it back up. His breaths are stuttered, chest heaving against your back.

“I’m, fuck…you feel so good.” 

He speaks through gritted teeth, thumb sliding over your throat while his palm supports it. The back of your head is pressed against his chest, your body being jerked with each strong thrust of his hips. Every bit of you is beneath him, curled and bent and at his mercy, his head just above your ear.

"I'm s-sorry for being an ass tonight.”

And he was, wasn’t he? All surly sighs and displeased, sarcastic smirks while you assured him several times he could leave whenever worked best for him. He was the one who decided to tag along, after all, to a boring old network dinner filled with hungry eyed men unworthy of being in your presence.

Dante isn’t so convinced he’s earned the honor either so he begs for forgiveness, hoping this won’t be the one time you’re stingy with it. He continues to apologize using his lips and his cock, tongue brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t deserve it tonight and you don’t deserve it ever again.”

Your cunt twitches around his shaft, body finally overwhelmed and overriding the control you’ve had over it since he first kissed you. 

Time has fallen away completely, all that remains now is him and you. The sound of the cars passing by outside the window and the slick of your lips touching and his moans of pleasure and your name when he follows right after you, sinking himself as deeply as possible to fill you to the brim fills the room.

No complaining neighbors yet but the night is young. 

Panting softly, your eyes flutter open to give you a glimpse of the man you love face to face.

“Really made me work for that one, huh?” 

Dante chuckles, gently and expertly maneuvering your exhausted body so that you are on your back with your legs spread and pushed up toward your chest. He fills the empty space between them with his broad body, hands falling to your hips and thumbs digging in. 

“We have five more to go, sweetheart. I was a bad, bad boy tonight, remember?” 

You groan, exhausted. Too tired to argue and way too tired to fight back, the note of displeasure quickly turns into a symphony of pitchy moans when he buries one of his fingers inside of your warm pussy, pushing the thick release oozing out of your hole back into you. 

“I have a feeling these ones will be much easier,” he goads, curling his finger to brush it against every spot that makes your hips jerk. “You’re already so wet and warm and…” He trails off, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Your body responds by clenching around his finger, holding it in place while a second, sharp orgasm washes through every fiber of your being, your body holding his finger inside and refusing to let it go until the pleasure has subsided.

“Oh, I didn’t think it’d be that easy.” 

Once again hard – crown of him blushing and hot and replacing his finger to be swiped through your sticky, sodden folds – Dante leans down to plant his hand on the other side of your head, his girth slowly slipping back inside of you.

“Four more for my girl.”  His voice is low and raspy in your ear, his hair tickling your face. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, you smile up at him, locking your ankles around his hips and throwing your arms around his neck. The once righteous anger you were filled with has subsided into a pleasant afterglow, leaving you strangely warmed by the knowledge that you are so adored he’s willing to act out when he feels what belongs to him is being threatened.

A better woman wouldn’t be so turned on by this. 

But it is you, so another round of wetness seeps from between your legs, adding to the syrupy slick mess that has already been made. Dante smirks, sinking himself to the hilt and biting his lower lip in a sight so sinful you almost wonder if you shouldn’t have raised the number of times he made you mad to eight.

[misshorneigh]

birds don’t sing (they just fall from the sky)

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader

summery - some dogs feel lonely when there's no one around, but they still bite when someone gets close.

cw/ kinda kidnapping, mentioned masturbation, creepy behavior, misogyny, implied noncon, dark themes

if you won’t give me love, i’ll take it

Simon didn't feel lonely; because that would mean that he didn't like being alone and wanted to change that, but he didn't. He didn't like change, and even less liked it when it came between him and his routine of doing things when and if he wanted to do them. He could avoid unnecessary chores much better when he was on his own.

Besides, Simon didn't want to blend in with anyone, things were better like this. This way, he could enjoy some tea with his breakfast in the morning in peace and put the dishes away when he felt like it or he could lazily pull his cock out of his jogging pants when he felt himself get hard so he could rub one out while still watching TV. He was never worried about stuff like making people uncomfortable but he didn't want to hear anyone nagging him about it.

So of course, he especially liked spending time alone in his apartment with no soul but his - sometimes for such a long amount of time that he started to forget what his own voice sounded like. He never had much reason to talk, especially since his health problems forced him to step back from military life. It was the only place where people like him could belong, given how he turned out after they pulled his collar off.

Simon didn't want to complain simply because he wasn't the kind of person who did, but he still couldn't deny that a strange ache settled between his teeth after several weeks of this new lifestyle, until it turned into a pain that became harder and harder to ignore and we are talking about the same guy who let medics pierce his skin with needles and threats but no anesthesia.

Eventually, he made an appointment at the dentist and even though his oral hygiene wasn't the best as expected, he was discharged with only the advice to brush more thoroughly. No rot, no black holes, and no chipped-off ends, at least no new ones - but when Simon ran his tongue over the exposed bones, he could still feel it.  A throbbing ache. Something that was wrong but he couldn't fix himself.

Maybe fighting dogs felt the same pain after they were suddenly taken out of the ring but still couldn't let go of the urge to bite. Maybe he wanted to bite, too.

"I'm sorry, but we don't have that brand in stock at the moment," you apologize wearily. The words came out automatically, without much thought since the new guy that should put the boxed products in place turned out to be an unreliable douche who rarely showed up, and well, the supermarket was as always barely staffed. There was only so much you could do, and someone needed to be at the register.

Simon grunted a little discontentedly but didn't say much more as he continued to silently watch you scan his products. Staring at your hands and their movement, then trailing along your arms until his gaze landed on your figure altogether. You looked tired as always like you didn't sleep properly.

You didn't pay much attention to his staring since you were pretty much used to it by now. You didn't know his name but this weird guy came quite often to buy some stuff, never much and rarely anything healthy. His diet seemed to consist of cigarettes and beer, maybe some cheap prepped meal from the freezer and you guessed a lot of takeaway - probably lived close with the number of his short visits. "Maybe it's a good thing." you shrugged your shoulders and looked up at him when he didn't answer. "Not smoking so much, I mean," you added since he couldn't buy them even though you somehow knew that the lack of an answer was most likely a conscious decision.

Simon just continued to stare at you, not saying anything and you were the first one to break eye contact by scanning another can of beer. He sometimes wondered if he made you uncomfortable with his silence, but you probably wouldn't start these one-sided conversations if that was the case or maybe it was just part of your nature to interact with others, - customers, or employees.

"The total of your purchase is 14.56 pounds." you finally said and took the bill he held out to you without making any more eye contact. Simon knew at moments like these that he made you uncomfortable even when you were willing to talk to him, even if you acted like he didn't.

He wasn't that surprised, how could an ugly presence like his be able to give anyone an ounce of ease? There was a time when he thought that maybe if he tried he could be that type of person - when he was younger, dumber and a part of him craved to be wanted. He thought that maybe he could make himself smaller to seem less threatening or even try this or do that until he finally realized that it was never going to work out, no matter what he did. The only talent his presence had was to make someone like you angsty by just breathing the same air. He accepted that a long time ago.

But maybe some part of him, couldn't help but wonder. Maybe the only way to have someone want him was by forcing them to, of course, he had to, especially if it were a little thing like you.

Not that he liked it to be you but - he guessed that you were just the first person that came to his mind since he'd see you often. Though, he also couldn't think of anyone else since his interactions with other people were pretty limited. The only other places he liked to go to were male-dominated with no pretty birds around or crammed with dirty whores who drank more cum than water.

His eyes wandered lower. Sometimes, the automatic doors would open, letting a breeze in, and he guessed that the cold air made your nipples poke through your shirt. Yeah, you were pretty enough, probably even more so if someone took care of you.

Simon didn't bother to return your goodbye when he grabbed his stuff and made his way out. He welcomed the fresh air and night sky without much trouble as he continued to think.

He had been doing that quite a lot lately, at least more often than usual - or perhaps more often about things he shouldn't care about. Like how you didn't have your shirt buttoned up today like you usually do, which gave him a clear view of your cleavage and he was never shy about having a good look at your tits, especially on the days you weren't wearing a bra. Unfortunately for him, you did today even if it was a thin one.

Hm. That probably made you uncomfortable, too. You didn't say anything though - you never did.

That day Simon unlocked the door to his apartment and switched on the lights like always, but the silence that greeted him felt irritating for the first time. He got even more annoyed when he went to sleep after remembering that he couldn't smoke since there weren't any cigarettes.

He blamed you for his bad mood and anything else, too.

.

.

.

You were fully aware that most people didn’t view a full-time job at a supermarket as a mark of success, but that didn’t bother you. You had graduated from university maybe a year ago, yet you just didn’t feel the desire to pursue any particular career afterward. Instead, you continued working the same job that had supported you throughout your life as a student. It was better than doing nothing

However, you still felt kind of stuck and you meant that more in a metaphorical sense, like in your way in life - not like this. "...sorry, but it's quite late so I'd better go home." you tried to explain to the man in front of you without provoking him in some way. You probably still did though, just by rejecting him.

You were familiar with the dark brown eyes watching you - familiar with the gaze that made you feel even smaller than his figure itself. He had some kind of scarf covering the lower half of his face, up to his nose as usual, but you didn't dare take a closer look. You didn't know much about him, even though you saw him several times a week but you used to picture him as some kind of socially awkward guy - not someone who cornered you in a dark alley after you closed up the shop.

How stupid you were.

You two were alone. No one else was around you. There was no one else here. Just the two of you. You and this - big guy.

"Are you scared?" he asked you, continuing the conversation calmly. Simon never talked around you so you weren't used to hearing his voice and you didn't want to. All you wanted was to finish work and call it a day, maybe quit so that something like this wouldn't happen again.

"...no," you replied, even though you could figure out that he knew that you were. You avoided making eye contact with Simon but still noticed him leaning closer to you and flinched slightly at the proximity.

"You should. Being with a man like me when no one's around doesn't bode well for you, my dear," he whispered as if you didn't know and your heart started beating faster when he moved his hand to your face to brush his thumb slowly over your cheek, almost as if the little touch alone was something to treasure. You wailed when he suddenly squeezed your cheeks tightly, making your lips pucker prettily, your hands instinctively shooting to his violent grip but barely able to resist his strength.

"Let's try again." he declared, pulling his mask down so that you could burn his face into your stupid brain. "I did you a favor when I told you to come home with me, you hear that? Don't give a shit if you want to, just wanted to be nice for once and not force you against a dirty wall where everyone can hear and see you."

You could feel tears gathering in your eyes.

Simon put his forehead against yours and maybe it was the physical contact that made your tears run down your waterline or maybe it was the strong smell of cigarettes lingered around him. "But I can and I will if you don't behave."

You tried to nod for fear of what would follow if you didn't and although his grip made movement difficult, he understood your intention. "Good. Now stop crying," he ordered, releasing your face to get a better look at your cowering figure. The sedative he carried with him felt heavy in his pocket as if to remind him that he took longer than intended.

Right. He wanted to knock you out as quickly as possible so it would be easier for him to take you, but he didn't anticipated that he would like seeing you being so upset because of him. His cock was painfully hard in his pants and you also avoided looking in that direction, perhaps because you already knew what a sick bastard he was.

His hands went to your hips and his nose hovered over your hair to inhale more of your natural scent. Simon wanted to take you apart piece by piece and stitch you back together until you would come to him on your own, even though part of you knew that he was the root of your pain.

Maybe he was wrong - maybe Simon was lonely after all, but that shouldn't be a problem now that he could just take you home with him. You just have to learn to adjust to him.

[meghiee]

Gradually breaking down the tough walls of omni-mark and teaching him how to feel again ?

Sunshine reader x grumpy omni-mark ? 🙏

a/n: i love this idea!!! enjoy anon :D

omni!mark x reader

warnings: none? (i think...) reader finally has a good ending!!! yippe!! :D

summary: mark is brooding, distant, and harsh around the edges. you, on the other hand, are bright, resilient, and maybe too friendly.

-

The first time you met Mark Grayson was a little less than ideal...

One second, you were depositing your bi-weekly paycheck, the next you were lying face-down on the cold floor of the First National Bank. It was your standard run-of-the-mill bank robbery. "Everyone to the floor!" and so on... Nobody wanted to play hero, so everyone, of course, fell to the ground, you included. Your heart pounded in your ears, fear racking your entire body.

Lucky you, though! There was a loud boom as something skyrocketed itself through the air, and right into the glass of the bank's front window... The shards sprinkled everywhere, so in the split second you had, your body automatically went to shield your head. What came first was shouting, next what sounded like a struggle, some gunfire, and then, you heard that unmistakable crunch of bone meeting something inhumanly strong.

Then, silence.

You peeked up cautiously.

There were scorch markers on the walls, shattered tiles everywhere, and three armed men groaning in various states of unconsciousness. But what really caught your attention was the man standing in the center of it all; red cape resting like a blanket on his shoulders, his blood-smeared knuckles clenched tightly.

He didn't smile. He didn't try to comfort anyone. He just turned, scowling like this was everyone else's fault, and turned on his heel and left. Muttered something about humans or something. Their weakness and fragility it sounded like.

The next time you met, you were chatting with your sweet elderly neighbor, Mrs. Li. You had been walking home from work when she called for you, eager to show off her new car that her husband bought as an anniversary present. She was always sweet to you, despite how it was a bit annoying that she was constantly trying to be your wingman with her grandson... It had been another one of those days. You quite frankly had no clue how she even changed the conversation to her grandson, but it got there! Smiling, you just nodded away, replying here and there to her borderline advertising with "Uh-huh." "Oh, really?" and "Wow!" and a forgiving smile.

Mark had hovered above your neighborhood, observing. That's truthfully all he had been doing all day. Observing Earth. He grew up here, sure. But after a day of no crime, he had nothing else better to do but to go for a walk... or fly. It was relaxing, truthfully. It made him feel human again. What a luxury it was to have that feeling.

It wasn't the flashy car Mrs. Li now had that caught his eye. No, it was you. You seemed so... familiar. He hovered closer, just above the powerlines. His arms crossed as he racked his brain for his memory of you. His eyes squinted in on you as he let out a deep, annoyed loud sigh. Why, and how did he know you?

He caught the attention of Mrs. Li, who clutched her hand over her chest. "Oh! I didn't know you had a suitor already?" She rasped out with a gulp. Her eyes glanced down to you and back up to Mark as she stepped back a bit.

Your eyes darted to the side and back to her in confusion, your mouth a bit agape. "Huh? I'm sorry... what are you talking about, Mrs. Li?" She pointed her wrinkly finger up towards the sky as she began to wonder how long he had been standing there before she noticed. He had to of been a suitor if he sighed like that at the mention of another man she had concluded. Your gaze followed to the sky.

There he stood, that familiar cape swooshing in the light breeze. He stood perfectly blocking the sunset, which gave him an almost god-like appearance.

Mark's eyes traced over your every feature, from the roots of your hair, to the confused look on your face, and down your body. He knew that face and the work uniform you wore from somewhere... Oh. The bank.

"Um... hello?" You had waved up to him. You gave a somewhat forced smile as you tried to hide the fact that his wandering eyes made you feel a bit uncomfortable. You recognized him too, he was the "hero" from the bank.

He kinda just hovered there for a moment, awkwardly. He honestly forgot people could see him, and it was a little creepy he was just there, staring. And after that, he was just gone. Off into the sky, to God knows where.

Hm, strange.

Well atleast it took care of the wingman problem!

The next time you saw him was at work. He floated right outside the coffee shop you worked at, hovering like a storm cloud in broad daylight. Didn't say anything. Just stared until you awkwardly opened the window and leaned out.

"Hello? Can I get you something?" You gave him that smile again. Forced, but this time a bit softer, kinder. A little brighter, too.

"I want coffee." he said almost demanding. That took you back a bit. He couldn't just... come inside? Your lips pursed. "Could you... come inside?" Your hands gesturing to the door. He scoffed, but still stepped inside using the front door. You returned behind the counter and got to work. You didn't really know what to make him, honestly. He didn't even look like the type to drink coffee in the slightest.

You brought him a black coffee in a to-go cup with a tiny drawn smiley face. He stared at it like it was an insult, before taking a sip. His face scrunched up as he swallowed. Yeah, he definitely never had coffee before.

"I'm guessing maybe you're more of a protein shake guy?" Gesturing to his arms. You couldn't deny, he was quite toned.

He didn't respond, just turned on his heel again and walked out the door, cup in hand.

What a strange man...

He showed up the next day.

He was covered in blood this time. Not his, you hoped. There was a tear across his shoulder where red fabric hung loose, and his boots were caked with something you definitely didn't want to ask about. But, even in that state: bruised and exhausted, he stood in line like anyone else.

Nobody dared to skip him.

"Make me whatever you did last time." he said flatly, when he reached the counter, eyes flicking to the menu with mild disgust.

You glanced him over. Studying his ragged state. You wondered in your head what he might've been fighting before coming here. You hummed in response, "Sure. Want, umm... cream? Sugar?" You asked, turning to grab a cup.

"No."

"Got it. Just, rage in a cup."

That took him a bit back. Like he hadn't expected sass from you, especially when you were wearing a puny apron this time that said "espresso yourself." They were new, just got them in that morning, actually.

You presented him the completed drink. He reached out to take it from you. Your hands brushed. His skin was warm, too warm.

"This one will be on the house... again." you added, trying not to stare too hard at him. You thought back to yesterday, wondering if he even drank the coffee you gave him.

He nodded once, muttered something like a thanks, and left.

And then he showed up, again.

And again.

Same time everyday, 8:12 AM. Usually no blood, the same coffee order, and that unreadable expression.

The days started to blur together.

At first, he never stayed. Just ordered, paid, and then left. But then one day, he sat down. He didn't say a word, just stared out the window for about twenty-ish minutes, cup untouched. You tried not to stare, but failed, stared anyway.

By the end of the week, you stared just bringing his coffee to the table instead of waiting for him to ask. "You know," you stared, setting his cup down gently, "we've got other drinks... You could live a little! A vanilla latte won't kill you."

He gave you a look. A glare. "I'd rather die."

You rolled your eyes and stifled a laugh, "Okay drama queen."

You started learning his patterns.

He always came after something bad happened. Collapsing buildings, alien attacks, or the newest: Viltrumite Interference. He didn't like talking about it, and you didn't press.

But, you were persistent in your own gentle way.

You'd ask dumb questions, tell him stories from your shift, and call him out when he looked too serious for too long. "You're scowling again," you pointed out once, leaning over the counter as he stirred his drink for the first time ever. "Is that your default setting or is it because of the coffee?"

"I'm always scowling." He replied, not looking up.

"Maybe you need a muffin?"

"I don't eat sugar."

"Wow. Tragic..."

Eventually, he started answering your questions. One word responses turned into full sentences. Then, stories. You learnt he liked the smell of rain, and hated jazz music. He also stopped listening to podcasts because people "talk too much about things that don't matter." He also read the same book three times because it reminded him of peace, even if he didn't understand the meaning.

He told you about space like it was a memory, not a theory. He told you about the silence on moons, and the way air sounds different when you're not sure you're going to make it back.

And, you listened. Not like a fan, not like someone impressed. Just, someone who cared.

The first time he called you by your name, it startled you. You were handing off his drink as usual when he said, "Thanks, (Y/N)." You blinked in surprise. "Whoa, you do listen." Mark looked away, clearing his throat. "I'm not deaf." You hummed, sort of in agreeance. "I see that."

He glanced at you, and this time, he actually smiled. Small, barely there. But you saw it.

Then, he started following you home. Nothing romantic, just him trying to make sure you made it home safe; he mentioned something about "the city becoming dangerous" when you asked why. You hummed in response, but you still felt like there was more to it. Those glances of his started lingering.

On your walks, he started watching you like he was waiting for the next thing you'd say. And once you reached your front door, he would hover outside, like he was waiting for something. It was always an awkward goodbye. Once your door shut, he never left. He always hovered near your windows. Never close enough to be seen, but close enough to protect you incase something happened.

He wasn't sure why he did. You weren't special by any means, not to him atleast. Maybe. Maybe it was the way you joked with him. Or maybe it was that soft smile you always wore. At first it pissed him off a bit, now it made his heart strings pull in various directions. The more time you spent with him, the more cracks started to show in the wall he built around himself.

He never stopped being grumpy, though. He still scowled at squirrels, muttered about idiotic traffic systems, and gave side-eyes to anyone who flirted with you at work.

"I don't understand you," he said once on a walk home, eyes fixed on the skyline above. "You're happy for no reason. Often. That's... weird." The corner of your mouth twitched up at his words. "I don't need a reason to be happy," you replied, "Some of us just enjoy their time, especially when they're around others." You pointed at him as he glanced down to you, he hummed in response, a habit he began picking up from you.

He stayed a little longer that night.

The next time he stayed late was the night he first kissed you. You decided to just let him come in, not wanting to stand on your porch for an hour like last time. It was cold that night, just like this one was. He looked so foreign in your house. He stood stiff, as usual, and didn't get too close to any furniture. He looked like he was waiting to be told to sit down, instead of just sitting down. You on the other hand, were already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, staring up at him like he was a little... dumb. "You can y'know, sit down." You patted the space next to you, a signal he was free to do as he pleased. Mark nodded, "...right." he replied, walking over to you and sat. He sat so stiffly, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it would move. He looked like he was ready to leave. You stared rambling about your day and how you smelt something that reminded you of a childhood memory. With a heavy sigh, he interrupted you, grabbing your face and pulling you into him with a desperation that startled you. He kiss was clumsy, breathless. His hands trembled. He didn't know how to be gentle.

But, you did.

You eased into him, letting the tension bleed out of his muscles one heartbeat at a time. You kissed him like you weren't afraid. Like he wasn't the son of a murderer. Like he himself, wasn't one either. Like you weren't human and breakable.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and was breathing uneven. He shot up from the couch and took a step back, body stiff as he spoke, "I shouldn't have done that."

You smiled, rising with him. You closed the distance between you two as you let the silence fill the air. You tried reading his face, tried to decipher him. That stupid mask blocked any chance of that. Finally you spoke, "Yes you should've, Mark." He didn't answer.

But he did stay the rest of the night.

Mark wasn't quite made for love. He was shown it as a kid, sure, but he wasn't meant to experience it. He was made for war, plain and simple. For barked orders and blood mixed with fire. But, you started to show him that he could be loved again.

And slowly, he changed.

He'd bring you gifts; awkward, misplaced things like meteor fragments or Martian plant samples. Stuff you really didn't need, but it was the thought that counted. He started showing up before you asked. He began to rest. He listened more, smiled more, and sometimes even laughed. Real laughs, the from the stomach kind of laughs.

And one night, when you were curled up on the couch watching some stupid romcom, he wrapped an arm around you and whispered softly, "I don't think I ever understood why my dad fell for a human."

The words made you shiver and look up at him. He was staring ahead, unreadable. "But now?" He glanced down at you, locking eyes. Something warm flickered in his cold face.

"Now I do."

[zakiyah]

there are so many reasons to work out besides looking different btw

[fakebatmanfan]

Friendly reminder that just because Jervis is small, he isn't weak by any means.

[softshuji]

??????.......

[dreamlogic]

E has dubbed this spring the "season of pain" and she's. not wrong.

[geddy-leesbian]

I'm realizing I barely make any edits/shit posts for other people like I used to. there was a point where I was making shit for people unprompted at least several times a week and now I can't even remember the last thing I made specifically for anyone else. it kinda makes me sad but also I don't think anyone really cared at all about my stupid little edits in the first place and also it was just starting to suck for me. I can give and give and give and spontaneously want to make things for other people, for their fics or just silly discord messages, because they inspired me

and then none of my effort is reciprocated. my folder for stuff I've made for other people has like 60 pics (and I recently deleted a lot of the large files from the foldee to free up space on my phone, it had a lot more) and there's only 9 pics people have made for me. I don't want to sound ungrateful or entitled but I've really just lost the urge to make stuff for other people when I know it's always going to be a one-sided thing. I don't think anyone's ever made anything for me unprompted really, 95% sure everything in my stuff from friends folder was requested or for my birthday or one of my previous mental breakdowns, not any random out of the blue "I loved your fic/concept and wanted to make something" like I've done for other people on so many occasions

so it's like yeah I'm tired and having a selfish arc all I want to do is make stuff for my own fics and AU's because the only person who gets inspiration from them is me and I just gotta accept that and appreciate that at least I can make cool self indulgent stuff for myself. like sorry but I don't care how much I love your fic I'm not spending hours making a cool edit to show my appreciation when what will happen when I post the edit is a million people reblog it also praising your fic and it'll get more attention than any of my fic posts. if I'm not going to get similar energy from you I don't want to spend my time and effort. like at this point I can only see myself making an edit for a fic I like by an author who consistently comments on my fics too. I don't want anything straight up transactional (like a deal that I'll make something for X comments or whatever) but I just don't want to spend hours doing things for people that don't care and wouldn't spend any amount of their own time on anything for me, I need to feel like you care about me at least a little

so I'm just going to focus on edits for my fics because I'm the only one who will ever care enough to make things. it could definitely be worse, I can't draw for shit but at least I came to the RE fandom with many years of gimp and picsart experience from doing RP promo edits so I can make SOMETHING visual to go with my fics. I'd probably actually lose my mind if I didn't have that going for me

[veththeebrave]

The problem with my rare pairs is that the main ones I'm obsessed with all involve yeza in some way, and require that he be given more depth to add something to those relationships. But when it comes to filling in npcs backstories and elaborating on certain character choices there's a thin line between "this is a reasonable extrapolation of what we know about this character" and "this is an oc with the same name".

[welcometogrouchland]

*twirling my hair* do you like cassandra cain? if not, do u have a moment to hear about our lord and saviour cassandra cain?

CASSANDRA CAIN MY LOVE!!! She's definitely the batgirl I've read the most in terms of full issues, the first 30-ish issues of her solo by Kelly Puckett Scott Peterson and Damion Scott had me hooked and I binged them but fell off after Horrocks came on (nothing against him, he was just given an editorial mandate to make the book more romance focused and it turned me off because it felt so ooc for Cass to me lol. I do own some of the issues he wrote tho! I like the ones with art by Rick Leonardi). I'm not really caught up with modern comics (ish??) And I'm not reading anything dedicatedly but I hear she's in a new original book teaming up with a magic user? Neat! Good for her. I love her in the shadow of the batgirl graphic novel (IT'S SO GOOD)

[senadimell]

.

[trollbreak]

Eiteth horrors <3

[bats-and-the-birds]

I have an obsession with Batfam meets the Justice League fics and headcanons in general, and my favorite situation is when the JL fully knows Nightwing, he's on the team, they all like him quite a bit, and he's so charming and open seeming that they all collectively forget that they don't know anything about him.

I want that, then on a mission, fighting a magic user of some sort, Nightwing gets zapped back to young Robin age. So everyone else on said mission is left confronted with 9 year old Dick Grayson in full Robin gear, who is fully ready to fight every single one of them, and they generally have no idea what's happening or who this child is, other than the fact that he's probably young Nightwing, except he won't answer to that name.

And Dick, extremely confused and suspicious because he doesn't know half of the people there, and the ones that he is aware of are wearing different costumes or are just straight up different people than they're supposed to be, proceeds to try and fight them, then actively try to run away.

Then they finally manage to wrangle him back to the Watchtower, trying to grapple with the implications that Nightwing has been a highly trained, costume vigilante since childhood, and managed to break a bone in Green Arrow's hand before they subdued him, and is still thrashing around and trying to bite various League members.

They call Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman in to see if they have any idea what to do with him, and when Robin sees Batman, he squirms out of Flash's grasp, runs to Batman, and climbs up his side until he's wrapped himself around his shoulders like he does it every day.

The Bat lets this happen, sighs in exasperation, then calls Zatanna to help.

The League is then left to piece together why tiny child Nightwing ran to Batman for safety, and why Batman seems a whole lot less confused than everyone else.

[hylianengineer]

Begging literally everyone to recognize that it is an ASSHOLE MOVE to trick people into eating things they didn't agree to eat! It doesn't matter if they've told you they have allergies or not! Some of us would like to not CONSTANTLY feel like we're annoying people by having needs, so we don't necessarily mention it if a food is presumably safe. I.e. I with my gluten intolerance and dairy allergy do not say anything if being offered something like fruit salad. But if you're going around secretly putting stuff in fruit salad that doesn't normally go there, SAY SO! Loudly. Stick a sign on it. Heck, if you stick a sign on ALL your potluck/bake sale/random get-together foods with an ingredients list, I will love you forever. I will kiss you on the mouth. Everyone with allergies/intolerances/other food issues (e.g. migraine triggers, IBS triggers, etc.) will be immensely relieved and delighted. PLEASE, if you won't put in effort to protect us, at least don't actively put in effort to make our lives harder. I'm lucky because my allergies won't kill me, but I would also literally rather break a bone than deal with dairy exposure symptoms. This is really, really important.

“Meatless alternatives are getting so good, you should try them! I bet you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference! In fact….”

Please

Please

Please stop trying to sneak-feed me meat alternatives.

I am willing to prepare and share a vegan meal with you, I’m willing to skip animal products in our group spaces.

Please.

Stop trying to sneak-feed me meat alternatives.

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

[rosesaints]

if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)

pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader summary: you’re a TVA agent—meant to observe, never interfere—but you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it can’t break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here. word count: 15.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss

This is it.

The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent. 

Emphasis on “precision.” Emphasis on “field.” Emphasis, mostly, on “agent,” because the term “analyst” was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).

You’re not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think “delete” is a solution. You’re not an auditor—thank God—squinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.

No. You’re the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.

Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You don’t push the dominoes over—you walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.

There’s no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either. 

Everything you do is redacted—even from you. You carry the residue of other people’s lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom. 

Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.

It’s the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?

No one answers yes. Not honestly.

You understand now why. There’s no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesn’t stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.

You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them “softpoints.” You call them “the edge of the knife.”

Sometimes you’re a midwife in 1421. Sometimes you’re the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes you’re a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.

Right now, you're really fucking hungover.

You started having the dream again.

Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in pieces—clipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.

But it kept returning.

Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New York—no file, no mission tag—in winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. You’re on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.

You wake up before you follow. Every time.

Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.

You groan.

This is how your days usually start. 

You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.

Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.

Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.

Your hair is somewhere between “ungovernable” and “formerly respected.” You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last night’s choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly — TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead — neutral, inoffensive.

You’ll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.

By the time you lace your boots (twice — the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangover’s down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.

You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.

And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you don’t remember how you got here. Or how you’ve always been here.

You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.

Time to go.

Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, you’re hunched over yet another Form G-17 — “Suspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.” Your fourth this week. You’ve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.

The previous G-17s included such branch classics as “cow develops rudimentary consciousness,” “Steve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,” and “Loki starts a book club.” (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)

This one, though—this one’s different.

The case file reads:

CASE FILE: #616-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence LOCATION: Siberia, USSR DATE: February 1955 SUMMARY: A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline ‘fraying.’ Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high. NOTES: Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.

You stare at the file.

Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignment—just ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.

Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: “Please do not eat my croissant. Please.” The second “please” is underlined three times.

You stole that croissant yesterday.

Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.

You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. “Oh good,” you mutter to no one. “Toe amputation weather.”

You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum — dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.

Casey looks up.

“Heading out?” he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when you’re gone. You have the only chair that doesn’t squeak like a dying goose.

“Yup,” you say. “Brad flagged something ‘mildly interesting.’ We’ll see if it’s another raccoon wasted off shrooms.”

“Or a bear,” Casey offers.

You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. “Or a hallucinating bear.”

Casey nods gravely.

The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, “Let’s go see what broke this time.”

Then you step through.

The light swallows you whole.

And you forget, for a second—just a second—that you were ever anything else.

EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955

The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.

You didn’t trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barely—still more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasn’t on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.

Still. It was warm. Warm enough.

Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didn’t care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zone—a softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.

You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.

Observe. Do not interfere.

And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.

Unidentified movement—Quadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.

Human-shaped. Probably.

You didn’t move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.

You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.

You didn’t believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.

The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudder—just a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.

You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.

The blip on the monitor moved closer. Still slow. Still steady.

Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.

Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. It’s not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is close. Inside.

Then the ping.

INTERNAL SECURITY BREACH: SECTOR 7 – SUB-HOLD ACCESS. UNAUTHORIZED MOVEMENT DETECTED.

Of course. Of course it’s the hold.

You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.

The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusion—boots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.

Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.

You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Four—no, five—distinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.

Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.

You move anyway.

Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralize—just to see.

Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrong—like the mind inside doesn’t fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesn’t even register you.

Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharper—like old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it. 

In the corner of the hold, something hums—low, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter. 

Instead, it's a pulse field generator—standard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.

According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Node—a fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.

This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. “No wonder they didn’t send backup. Needed someone expendable.”

Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashion—metal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generate—

—and freeze.

Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.

His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edges—standard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. There’s snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.

But it's his eyes that hold you still.

Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyes—pale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.

Just staring.

Like you’re an answer to a question he hasn’t been able to phrase. Like he’s seen you before and forgot until now.

And maybe—you freeze, stomach folding in on itself—maybe you forgot too.

The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache you’ve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.

You’ve heard plenty about Bu—the Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so… aware. 

At the TVA, he’s quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitch—just a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version they’ve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. He’s the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way back—bloodied, wrong, resilient.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replicate well. His story’s too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesn’t scale. Whatever makes him who he is—the loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep trying—it’s never quite transferable.

The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.

In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, you’ve never actually met any versions of him.

Not directly. Not face-to-face. You’ve seen the aftershocks he leaves behind—cratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. You’ve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he should’ve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.

It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.

Except now he’s standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.

In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldier—a precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.

You take in the rest of him.

His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactly—but preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week and hasn’t cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since… the thing.

But it’s the eyes again—flicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something you’d almost call suspicion, if there wasn’t so much… exhaustion in it.

And finally—his silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like he’s cataloging the shift in your body language. 

Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: he’s uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.

Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasn’t fully rebooted yet. There’s still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breath’s too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gaze—not vacant, not robotic, but… blinking too hard. Like the world’s coming in too fast, too bright, too much.

Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wrist—twenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.

“Look—”

But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.

“Quiet,” he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scoured—hoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just… grounding.

You nod. One deliberate motion. A signal that you understand. That you’ll play along.

There’s a beat—one heartbeat, maybe two—before he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.

Two more figures drop from above—armed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.

Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry. 

The air shudders again—an ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everything’s shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, “We have to move.”

He hesitates—but only for a second.

Then he runs.

You don’t speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays close. Too close. Like he’s guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasn’t figured out yet that you aren’t the one who needs protecting.

You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Bucky’s chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.

You glance back.

He’s stopped.

He’s leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.

His metal fist clenches tight—so tight the plating groans—and he presses it to his temple like he’s trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brain’s short-circuiting.

“Hey,” you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. “Hey.”

Nothing.

“Bucky.”

It slips out before you can catch it.

And it works.

He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap open—and they find yours instantly.

Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.

Not of you. For you.

His lips part like he’s going to speak—but no sound comes out.

You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.

You reach him slowly, each step cautious, deliberate. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you say quietly. “I swear. I’m not.”

His jaw twitches. His eyes won’t leave yours. That look again—like he knows you. Like he’s trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.

“I know this place is loud,” you continue, softer still. “I know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But you’re doing fine. Better than fine.”

A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. You’re not sure which would be worse.

And then the timepad on your wrist pulses—a slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.

CONVERGENCE REDIRECTED. NEXUS THRESHOLD STABILIZED.

Of course. That’s what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didn’t break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.

It was him. He was the pulse.

You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold must’ve gone inert—no more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the storm’s intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everything’s slowing down. Calming.

It’s over.

The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol you’ve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.

But.

You’ve already—fuck, you’ve already. The moment he looked at you like that—like you were familiar, like you mattered—it was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.

“I don’t know what they told you,” you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. It’s quieter now. Gentler. Like you’re afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. “About this place. About this mission. I don’t even know if you’re going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—”

You don’t finish.

Because he speaks.

“Will I see you again?”

The words are soft. Barely voiced. Like he had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavy—denser than sound has any right to be. It knocks the breath out of you. 

You blink. “What?”

He steps forward—just one measured step—but it’s enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension he’s trying to lock down.

He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t need to.

You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines you’ve used before—smooth, forgettable, safe. But you don’t reach for any of them.

Instead, you smile. It’s lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. It’s your shield and your surrender, both.

“Only if you start talking more,” you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.

The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.

But your heart’s a thunderclap now. Relentless. You’re already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softened—not like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe he’d found something in you worth staying awake for.

And you know better—god, do you know better—but your feet don’t move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.

You don’t look back. You never do.

But the image of his eyes—ice-clear, impossibly human—follows you like a ghost you didn’t mean to keep.

.

You wait for the hammer to fall.

You expect it in the usual ways—a recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.

You expect something.

Because you said his name.

Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passing—not incidental. You chose to.

You’ve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worse—shunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.

And you—you—let your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. That’s not oversight. That’s not mission drift. That’s a lapse.

And yet… nothing happens.

Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.

Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.

Business as usual.

You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angle—waiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.

Nothing.

Just… more work.

You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange here—like chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.

But there’s something different now.

It’s you.

You keep seeing him—in flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you don’t realize you’re having until they hit the page. You start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?

You shouldn’t care. You don’t care. It’s just a glitch in your focus. Just… inertia.

Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.

Some entries are missing dates.

You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.

You just want to.

And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in gold—Causal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.

You flick through the details:

CASE FILE: #456-TH9 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands DATE: JUNE 1602 ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes SUMMARY: Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures. You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.

(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)

You frown at the file. It feels… small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.

Still, you hesitate.

Not because it’s dangerous. Because it’s not. And because part of you wonders—quiet, insistent—if he’ll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.

The TVA says every mission is randomized.

But it never quite feels like that, does it?

EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602

The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.

Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. It’s quiet here, beneath the canopy—just birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.

You scan the clearing.

They call it a "camp," but it’s more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crest—recently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.

You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalist—dirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives. 

You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hair’s tied back, rough and practical. There’s mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.

He doesn’t see you, not yet.

Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), you’re told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.

“The mead’s surprisingly tolerable,” they say, nudging your satchel. “Also, your contact’s not due for another twelve hours, so don’t just sit there and brood. Blend in.”

You go.

The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbal—probably the same bitterroot tincture you’ve been pretending to peddle all day.

The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. It’s warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.

Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.

You look up—and still, somehow, you’re not ready.

He’s changed, of course. That’s the constant.

His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metal—but shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.

A blacksmith’s nightmare. A knight's inheritance.

And then there’s the way he moves—like someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.

His eyes—those same pale, searching eyes—find yours almost immediately.

He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesn’t quite match.

He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.

“My lady, you shouldn’t be out this late,” he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life that’s clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. “Not alone.”

You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. “It’s always late here. And rarely alone.”

He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like you’ve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.

Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.

He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. He’s still damp at the collar—rain, or sweat, or both. He’s got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesn’t shake.

“Have we met?”

You offer a small, unreadable smile. “I don’t believe so.”

But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing it—mapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.

“You look lost.”

“Just passing through.”

His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesn’t satisfy. You can tell he doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t press.

He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people who’ve stopped pretending they’ll live long lives.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.

You glance at them. “Neither should you.”

His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.

He’s part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. He’s the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest he’s tried to remove—once royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when he’s still too long, and there’s something reverent in how the others look at him when they think he’s not paying attention.

This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, he’s a savior. To himself, probably a liability.

Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.

And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you don’t quite belong here—and wants to guard you anyway.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you home.”

The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.

The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.

He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.

“Why are you here?”

You should lie. You want to lie.

But instead, you say it softly. “Because I said I would be.”

He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesn’t understand them. But he feels them.

You step closer. Just close enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you kiss him.

The moment your lips touch his, the rest of the world blanks. Not gone—just irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slats—it all slips away. All that remains is this.

His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if he’s holding still for a test he doesn’t know the answer to.

You’re the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.

And gods—it does.

It means everything you haven’t said aloud. Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldn’t scrub clean.

You’d told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.

Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.

He doesn’t pull away.

His hand twitches—just once—like he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesn’t. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like no one’s kissed him like this in years.

Like no one’s ever kissed him like they remembered him.

The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you won’t be able to file away as incidental.

But you linger close.

He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.

You complete the mission in silence.

The child is easy to find—just as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his mother’s arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.

And just like that—it’s done.

Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.

The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You don’t look back. You’ve learned your lesson there.

But as you step through, the last thing you hear—carried faintly on the wind—is his voice.

“I never got your name,” he says into a room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.

.

You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data point—distinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.

There’s the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like they’re a threat and touches you like they’re a prayer.

The one in 2049 who doesn’t speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like he’s known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.

Each time, it’s different.

Each time, it’s him.

You start to think: maybe he’s not a variable. Maybe he’s the constant. The fixed point the multiverse can’t help but echo. A gravitational pull in human form—tethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.

You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if it’s punishing you instead—showing you every version of the thing you can’t quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.

You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.

Then you get your next assignment.

The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always are—euphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didn’t.

You read it twice. Three times. It doesn’t change.

This Bucky Barnes didn’t fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydra’s European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.

You try to imagine him without the weight.

You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.

You wonder what that would be like.

So you go.

Of course you go.

You always do.

EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944

You’ve never liked the long assignments.

Short ones are surgical—get in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.

You’re embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think you’re here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. They’re not entirely wrong.

The first time you see him again, he’s making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. He’s not in uniform—just a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.

It’s different sound from what you've heard over the years.

But then Bucky Barnes notices you.

Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the fact—love at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasn’t cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.

“You always write that fast?” he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like it’s casual, like he didn’t cross half the camp just to talk to you.

You don’t look up. “Only when I’m trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.”

He grins. “Hey, Dugan’s doing his best.”

You snort. “His best sounds like a wounded mule.”

He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. It’s nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.

Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questions—about where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.

You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.

But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You don’t sleep well. You’ve lost people.

He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though it’s technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.

He never pushes.

And you hate it—how much you want him to.

The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. It’s stupid, how much you feel it.

He notices.

"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that you’ve known someone longer than you’re supposed to?"

Your breath catches.

You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."

He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.

You’re not supposed to fall in this one. 

But God, it’s so easy. So familiar.

Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses weren’t looking. He draws out your laugh like it’s a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.

And all the while, you feel it coming. 

One night, two months in, he walks you back and you don’t stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.

"You’re not like anyone I’ve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.

You smile sadly. "You’ve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. "But none of them felt like déjà vu."

You almost kiss him. But not yet.

The war ends not with silence, but with song.

London spills into the streets like a wound unstitched—men and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesn’t sleep. Neither do you.

You’ve stayed longer than planned.

Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepad’s been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret you’re not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibility—two to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.

Bucky doesn’t know. He’s too busy laughing—really laughing—face lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s had two pints and a victory cigar, and you’ve never seen him look so alive. 

He’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he must’ve stolen from Stark’s ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. He’s warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.

You turn, startled by the shift. “About?”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind you—drunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.

“You could come with me,” he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."

Your stomach drops.

“We’ve got peace now. There’s gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know it’s chaos but… I don’t know. I thought maybe…” He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”

You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates again—EXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“I’ll get a job,” Bucky says.

His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgent—like if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything it’s not allowed to be.

“You’re so… so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room and—Christ, I’ve seen tacticians, I’ve seen war heroes—but no one moves the way you do.”

He’s closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.

“I’ll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but we’ll learn the neighbors’. I’ll fix the heater when it breaks. I’ll learn to make your coffee the way you like it—two sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. I’ll write it down if I have to. You won’t even have to ask.”

He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.

“I’ll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. I’ll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. We’ll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. I’ll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. I’ll leave notes on the fridge. I’ll rub your feet when you’ve had a long day, even if you pretend you don’t want me to.”

His eyes are wet now, but he doesn’t blink them away. He wants you to see.

“I’ll build a life where you can rest,” he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. “No secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we don’t have to leave unless we want to.”

His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. He’s unraveling. And he’s never been more sure of anything.

“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers. “But you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.”

His eyes search yours, bright and raw.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I just want—”

You don’t speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.

Instead, your hand reaches for him—cups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.

The kiss is molten.

Not soft, not chaste. It’s everything you aren’t supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and war’s aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows you’re slipping.

You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. And you—you clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around you—drunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestone—but none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.

He kisses like he’s starved for something he can’t name.

Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.

Somehow, you make it back to his quarters—barely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and he’s on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like he’s mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.

“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. “Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”

You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not dreaming.”

You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiers—scars you’ve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.

Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.

Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuits—he's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."

You pull on his hair—hard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."

"Ask and you shall receive."

You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can't—won't—look away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.

Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.

"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."

He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going to—oh, yes, right there—god, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."

You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Not—not like this. I want to be inside you."

Of course, of course. "Of course, James."

He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.

"So eager."

You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a tease—Oh."

He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.

His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch. 

"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."

You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to you—fuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.

You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like that—him inside of you, tangled up in him.

The light is different when you wake up in the morning.

Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesn’t want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.

His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.

You don’t kiss him goodbye.

Instead, you whisper something he won’t hear. “I wish we had more time.”

And then you activate the timepad.

.

Time passes strangely in the TVA.

There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days don’t pile up here—they just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesn’t exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.

You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.

Instead, you worked.

Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wanted—scrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before you’d even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake you’ve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)

You smiled. You always smile.

You don’t let yourself say what you’re really thinking.

That all of it—all the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into place—is just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.

And you’ve tried. God, you’ve tried.

You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself it’s not cowardice if it’s protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.

Until the file lands on your desk.

CASE FILE: #2149-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: Earth-2149 — Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day) ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials SUMMARY: Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and T’Challa successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage. Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.

You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.

But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.

No backup. No reassignment.

Just you.

EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)

Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.

The air reeks of ash and ozone. You’re used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesn’t fall the way it should—too sharp at the edges, like the sun’s been split into shards and you’re walking through the aftermath.

You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.

Bucky doesn’t make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.

And you’re supposed to let that happen.

Your first glimpse of him isn’t cinematic. No slow reveal, no stirring strings. Just a sliver of profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. He’s talking to Parker—low and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.

When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is again—that look. Recognition.

Your breath stutters. You don’t say anything. You just nod, like you’ve been here all along. Like you’re meant to be here. 

You don’t know if you can watch him die.

Not when you’ve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.

Peter introduces you. A name you chose at random from a TVA list. He doesn’t flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyes—quiet and soft and gone before it settles.

You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesn’t quite land.

For the next two weeks, you stay with them.

You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's… he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when he—when he eventually—You can't even say it.

But it happens one morning, anyway—fog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. You’re both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, what’s left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.

You blink from your thoughts. “In a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.”

He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. “I was gonna say the same.”

Silence settles between you, but it’s a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.

You speak first this time. “You always this poetic?”

“Only when I’m tired. Or scared.”

You glance at him. “Which is it now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Both.”

You don’t touch. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the space between you—heavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.

You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.

He doesn’t have to say anything. You feel it.

All of it.

And the worst part—the most unbearable—is knowing it’s temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.

You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though it’s hopeless.

But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like it’s trying to keep him there.

And then it's here.

The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.

You've lost practically everyone—Sharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not grief—there’s no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivors—Peter, T’Challa, Lang’s floating head in a jar—are already climbing aboard. You’ve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.

You’ve done everything the mission brief said—down to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you… you’re standing beside Bucky.

And still, you’re standing beside him.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you can’t decipher. There’s soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, there’s something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.

Resolve.

You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.

“We have to go,” you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.

Bucky doesn’t move.

He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. There’s something about this version of him—familiar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.

You hate that.

“I’ll hold her off,” he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.

“No,” you breathe. Too fast, too raw.

His brow furrows. “Someone has to. You said it yourself—if we don’t get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to be you.”

He smiles, and it’s that same damn smile that’s followed you across time. The one that says it’s already decided.

“I think it always was.”

You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that you’ve met him over and over, and every time he’s left a bruise somewhere deeper.

But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.

MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES

You ignore it.

“You’ll make it,” he says gently, like a goodbye.

“No, I won’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

There’s shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.

You don’t move.

Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for you to memorize it.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Greedy. A kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like it’s something he’s missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of him—the scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you pull away.

“I’ll find you again,” you say. It's a promise.

He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.

You watch him go. You always watch him go.

The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking joke—

Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.

You don’t look back at the ground. You’ve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesn’t stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you can’t see him anymore—

You swear something rips loose in you.

And this time, you don’t think it will grow back.

.

You’ve seen him in snow.

In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. You’ve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. You’ve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one notices—quiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesn’t ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.

And now you’ve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadn’t known you—not really. Not as the woman who’d held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But he’d looked at you like he wanted to.

The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.

So when you get the assignment to go—

It doesn’t land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVA’s perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.

The kind of hurt that doesn't pulse—it seeps. It rots. You move like you’re wearing someone else’s body, like your own bones are too loud. You haven’t been sleeping—not really. 

You open the file with a numb hand. Just procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you see the numbers.

CASE FILE: #616-SV1 MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania DATE: March 2016  ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat SUMMARY: Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.

Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell.

There’s a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isn’t built for recursion. But this—this is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.

And now you’ve been assigned to watch him again.

After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass.

You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself. 

You don’t.

You close the file and begin packing for Bucharest.

EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016

You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep. 

The city feels brittle—like something trying very hard not to splinter. Your cover’s thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.

And you wait.

The first time you see him again, he’s carrying plums.

You’re leaning on a railing, nursing coffee that’s more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way you’ve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.

He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.

You almost don’t recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.

But it slams into you anyway.

Because there it is—that flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.

You’ve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit. 

You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.

Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every time—checks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like he’s trying not to be. Like he’s tired of being a weapon, and doesn’t quite know how to be anything else.

He never takes the same route home.

You map them all anyway.

There’s a rhythm to his caution. It’s not paranoia. It’s preservation. You know the difference. You’ve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someone’s not trying to escape the world—just survive it.

And through it all, you pretend not to ache.

You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. He’s not a threat. Not a spark.

Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.

But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault lines—but for the quiet, ordinary proof that he’s still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like it’s going to disappear.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

Until the night you lose him.

It’s raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. You’re two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.

And he’s gone.

You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. It’s half an hour later when you feel the grip.

Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sideways—into a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The wall hits your spine. The air knocks out of you. And then he’s there.

Close. Too close.

Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting.

“You’ve been following me,” he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He tilts his head, studying your face like he’s comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. “Siberia. 1955.”

The words gut you.

“I remember,” he says. “You said my name.”

His name. That night. The way he shook—like his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.

And it worked.

He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.

You don’t mean to—but you reach up, slowly, and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.

You look at him. Really look.

The rain has soaked through everything, and he’s shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t look like a stranger’s.

It looks like home.

He takes a step back and mutters, “Come on.”

You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practiced—surfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say.

“Not what you expected?” he asks eventually, voice rough.

You shake your head. “No. It’s exactly what I expected.”

He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. “How do you know me?”

And you could lie. You could stall. But you’re tired of running out of time.

But you’re tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didn’t make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stop—when the words have left you empty and open and raw—he doesn’t flinch.

He exhales, long and deliberate. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at you—really looks, and you can feel the moment shift.

“When I saw you again,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, “on the street… it wasn’t like remembering something. It was like finishing something.”

You blink. “Finishing?”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah. Like… you know when you’ve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyrics—just the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest just—unlocks. Like something you didn’t know was broken gets put back together.”

He glances down at his hands, then back at you.

“That’s what it felt like. Seeing you.”

You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.

“At first I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “Some hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldn’t place. But then you moved, and—Jesus—I knew it wasn’t just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you weren’t afraid of me.”

His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “Fear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. I’m used to people stepping back. Or pretending they don’t see me. But you… you didn’t flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I was—” He falters, and then tries again. “Like I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.”

Your chest aches.

He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. “God, and hearing you say it again—Bucky—like it was the first time all over. I don’t know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like… like I’d been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.”

You don’t say anything.

You’re still trying to breathe around the weight of him.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says. “Not clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That light—on your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like… five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.”

His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I think I’ve been looking for that feeling ever since.”

You don't answer—not with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, slow and deliberate, and sink to your knees in front of him.

Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a sound—half-breath, half-confession—as your fingers thread together.

“Okay?” you murmur.

He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungry—one brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’s still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, you’ll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft, reverent—his lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything you’ve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.

He surges forward.

Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.

Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like he’s trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.

And then—God—he breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.

“You’re real,” he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, slow and aching, like it means something. Like everything means something.

You’re both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers.

He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuck—you're so wet. For me?"

You nod, breathless.

It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal. 

Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's so—he's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.

"Bucky, please—oh god, please, don't stop."

You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in place—and then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.

It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.

When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'm–here. Let me help."

Bucky smiles. Softly.

"You're so sweet. You're too good for me." 

You think you lose another shred of your sanity.

The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.

"Bucky, please."

His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."

It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking. 

He says your name again. "Promise me."

You tell yourself—you're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "Bucky—fuck—I—"

Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'm—"

"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and it—you don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."

Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—twined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.

You don’t want to break it. But you have to.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “They’re going to try to take me away.”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. “The TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. I’ve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. This—” You gesture softly between you, “—this isn’t sanctioned.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re not wrong.

“Let them try,” he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. “I won’t let them.”

You smile—sad, crooked, fond. “You might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.”

He swallows hard. “You promise?”

You nod. Press your lips to his again—gentle this time, slow and deliberate, like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:

“I’ll come back. I always come back.”

His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, they’re full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.

“Next time,” you say, voice shaking with certainty, “next time I’ll stay.”

THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9

You broke protocol. 

Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.

And the TVA caught up to you.

They always do.

They didn’t drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motion—and then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didn’t fall through time; it collapsed around you.

And then: nothing.

But nothing wasn’t quiet.

Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspension—standard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.

They called it “nullspace” in the manual. But that word doesn’t tell the whole story.

Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didn’t move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in it—bodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.

You stopped when you couldn’t tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives you’d watched but never lived.

You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—not every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.

Maybe they’d left you there forever.

But something changed.

When the light shifts again, it’s not like waking.

It’s like surfacing—like clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.

The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and you—like so many others—were set loose without fanfare.

Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.

You’re on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like it’s been waiting.

You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.

“Welcome back, Agent.”

“Status: Cleared.”

“Assignment Log: Vacated.”

You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.

“You are free to go.”

They’ve never said that before.

There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just… release.

It doesn’t feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.

When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.

Earth-616. Brooklyn.

And suddenly that dream… that dream you've always had isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t psychic bleed or misaligned memory. It’s real.

The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasn’t timeline residue.

It was home.

You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dream—your building. The stairs you must’ve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasn’t just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.

And you never did. Until now.

The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone he’d loved in a dream—all of it clicks into place.

You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.

You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:

“INPUT COORDINATES.”

Your breath shakes.

For the first time in your life, there’s no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.

You don’t hesitate.

EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026

You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names. 

But you’ve always been sure about how he looks in silhouette—how his shoulders hunch slightly when he’s thinking, how his hands twitch when he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he knows he’s not allowed to want.

And maybe that’s why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens. 

In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessed—not for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, “target disappeared into snow.”

Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.

You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live. 

For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didn’t see—chopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no one’s watching.

Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.

You remember something he once said—maybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. “People like us… we don’t get soft landings.” And you think that’s the tragedy of it. 

He has always been built to break. And you—you keep getting assigned to the wreckage.

There’s a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignment—just a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.

In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.

It’s nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’ve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. You’ve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, it’s coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.

But paper doesn’t account for the way he looks at you—each time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.

He's not supposed to remember you. He can’t. And still, he always sees you.

That’s the part that undoes you.

You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.

But you think—no, you know—if you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, you’d do it. You’d do it a thousand more.

Because even if all he says is, “Took you long enough,” you’d still believe it was worth the wait.

EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026

The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Stark’s foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassy—this one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, occasional Avenger—has just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.

Redistricting helped. So did the veterans’ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.

You find him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course he’s here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustration—white dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair. 

And somehow still the same soul you’ve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, he’s always trying to make something right.

You step into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the gravity of him pulls you forward before you’ve fully decided to be brave.

He’s facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomach—familiar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.

“Excuse me,” you say, steadying your voice like it’s just another assignment. “I’m a deeply concerned constituent, and I’d like to register a complaint about your policies.”

He turns.

And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.

His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only you’ve ever seen—like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t trust yet. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.

You only just open your mouth to say something else when he’s already in front of you. And then—

He kisses you.

Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesn’t keep contact. You let yourself press into it—mouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

“You came back,” he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. “You came back.”

Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm he’s real. “Took me long enough,” you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.

Then he stills, just a little.

“You staying?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.